


Tangled

by Mythalenaste



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Solavellan, Solavellan Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythalenaste/pseuds/Mythalenaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy prompt fill about Solas and Lavellan and elven hairstyles. Solas messes with Lavellan’s hair because she’s a disaster and not a morning person. Because I can be indulgent and adorable if I want to and no one can stop me :P. Also I’m pro anything vaguely Rapunzel-esque</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote cute solavellan again. I galloped through writing this but I like it all the same. Blame patchworkpuppet this is almost entirely her brainchild, I just did the legwork. :D <3

_"There is no sunrise so beautiful that it is worth waking me up to see it."_  
**— Mindy Kaling**

* * *

 

_Mornings_. Lavellan hated them. She was always up before dawn, the sky paling from the soft comfort of velvet night to the pallid blue gray of that wretched time between sun and moon. She would brush aside the concerns of her advisors and companions, insist that it was just a leftover instinct from being a Dalish huntress. The excuse was a good one, nearly impossible to refute. Being the clan’s breadwinner wasn’t a lifestyle that lent itself to restful sleep nor the opportunity for it. Besides…she could never remember her good dreams so really, what was the point? Nightmares plaguing her and always having to wake too soon left her unfulfilled by the prospect of sleep. And lately, the bad dreams had just been compounded by her waking and feeling like something had been  _watching_ her. Dogging her steps.  _A huntress should never feel hunted…especially not in her own dreams…_

She forced herself to clamber out of bed, the soft mattress threatening to consume her slight frame. Human beds. What she would give for a hammock or a bedroll. Lycanae shook her head and stumbled into the small cask chamber(the servants kept imploring her to call it a ‘dressing chamber’ and she had consequently refused. What was the cask  _for_ , anyway?)beside her bed, trudging to a small table set against one wall and the pitcher and bowl of water placed upon it for washing. She felt groggy and annoyed, incapable of putting on a good face for whoever was going to plead for the Inquisition’s aid today. She wrapped her fingers around the pitcher’s handle and slopped some water into the bowl and glowered at her reflection for a mute moment before letting out a soft noise of despair. No amount of false levity and smiling was going to be able to hide the fact that her hair was doing  _the thing_.

It was not just knotted and disheveled but  _sticking up_  at odd and gravity defying angles, the natural wave just having becoming an unattractive kinky curl that caught at the edges of her pointed ears and framed her face awkwardly. It didn’t help that it was still recovering from it’s poor shearing earlier that year, that the  tight bun she’d been forcing most of it into had probably made it more unmanageable. Several times, Josephine had given her despairing looks before an important audience and ordered a servant to attempt to fix it with limited success. Lavellan tried to smooth it into place, only for stray strands around her face to spring back up anyway.

“Mythal’s mercy,  _why_?” She grumbled, dipping her hands into the icy water and washing her face. Inspiration struck and she wetted her hair, sweeping it back from her face and tying it back with a bit of twine. It was bumpy and inelegant and loose but it would have to do. That or she was going to have to cut it…she was not looking forward to that prospect.

Lavellan slouched back into her main chamber, shrugging into the neutral taupe hideousness that was standard issue Harrit gear.  _Come on, just grin and bear it. Like ripping out porcupine quills. Think wakeful thoughts._  She noted the coffee brewing apparatus that she was still struggling to use with ease had been left on her desk…probably staining something important, too.  _Wonderful_. She snatched a small handful of the beans instead and popped them in her mouth, drinking water directly from the pitcher to wash them down like medicine.

_Mornings. You can do this. Go for a walk…_

* * *

“Fenhedis! Ow, these bloody knots! Dread Wolf take me and fuck me by a river-!” Solas made an abrupt snorting sound into his tea, half startlement and half outrage. It was too early for anyone but himself to be awake, that was the whole point. So why was Lavellan up and employing her rather colourful(No doubt due to Sera’s influence) vocabulary at this hour? Solas pushed aside the rousing account of Denerim’s political upheaval during the Blight that he'd been reading and cleared his throat pointedly.

“Who-Solas?” Lavellan came into view briefly, looking…rumpled. Her bow and a quiver of arrows were slung over one shoulder and she was poised with her fingers caught in the snarled mess that was her long, golden hair. Her bright, intelligent gaze had an edge of caffeine induced wakefulness to it and her grin was a bit wide as she hopped the railing and landed on the scaffolding below. “Solas!”

“Good morning, Inquisitor.” He took a casual sip of his tea and winced. “I did not expect anyone else to be awake at this hour.”

“Hunter’s schedule, I’m afraid.” She answered, dropping to the ground in one easy leap and setting her bow and quiver aside somewhat carelessly. He took another long sip of his tea and silently pondered when Lavellan would trust him enough to come clean about her nightmares. He could help but only if she asked…he did not want to run the risk of letting her know he had been monitoring her nightly ventures into the Fade.

_“I wonder what’s eating Glowy? Never seems like that elf sleeps…”_

_“She suffers from nightmares.”_

_“Chuckles, you should maybe ask her before wandering around in her head? Buy her dinner first, at least.”_

_“I…it is merely for study, Child of the Stone. The mark’s influence on her sleeping mind and whether or not it enhances her connection to the Fade ”_

_“Well, Man of the Pointed Ears, it sure seems to be enhancing your connection.”_ Reacquainting himself to being around people(and irritaingly perceptive dwarves) had been an experience…

“I was just going to do a little early morning target practice but then I-Ouch!” Lavellan was tearing her fingers through her hair, a pained expression on her face. There was an unpleasant ripping sound and she hissed, trying to claw the mess back into something vaguely resembling order.

“Wait, stop. Hamin, da’len, not that way.” He set his tea aside and stood, unable to watch her mangle her hair further. Lavellan froze, eyeing him curiously and shrugging her shoulders.

“I…it’s fine, Solas. I can fix it myself-ah,  _Fen’harel’s pointy teeth_  this  _hurts_ -” There was another brutal tearing sound as she pulled apart a stubborn knot, impatience and what Solas suspected was a caffeine sensitivity making her rush. Had the Dalish not invented combs yet? The People must truly be lost…

“Your lack of skill suggests otherwise, lethallan. Sit, I insist.” He pulled out the high backed chair from his desk and turned it sideways, gesturing for her to have a seat. Reading about the disastrous mien’harel of Denerim’s alienage could wait until he’d fixed this, especially if she was going to continue swearing graphically about Fen’harel and driving him to distraction.

Lavellan glanced up at him, intrigued. She gently extricated her hands from the snaggle and let a few stray strands drift to the floor, letting him guide her to her seat. She was tense and jumpy under his ministrations, the lack of restful sleep showing in her manner and the faint shadows under her eyes. It could not be easy for her, going from the relative safety and familiarity of her clan to becoming the leader of a human order responsible for mopping up every mess in Thedas. Solas sighed and pushed aside the books and papers littering his desk, perching on it’s edge and gathering her hair in his hands.

“Ouch-” Lavellan tensed slightly, anticipating the pain of having her hair yanked into submission.

“I haven’t even begun, Lavellan.”

“I know, I’m just rehearsing for-” He combed his fingers slowly through the silken strands, gently searching for knots. “Oh.  _Oh_. That’s…really nice, actually.”

“You sound surprised.” Solas worked deftly and carefully, the banality of the task an oddly welcome diversion. Lavellan tipped her head back and sighed, her eyes heavy lidded with pleasure. Gently, he swept her hair back behind her finely pointed ears and smiled to himself. He missed his long hair, the thick and luxurious locks pulled back in fierce styles, woven with bones and skulls in the time of Arlathan. Of the things all elvhen had taken pride in, their hair had been one of their greatest concessions to vanity.

“I suppose assuming that since you’re bald you know nothing about hair is not really fair of me.” Solas worked out a particularly difficult knot and tried not to take offense. He massaged her scalp, relishing the way her expression softened to bliss and the soft sigh that issued from her parted lips. “Oh, that feels  _amazing_ …”

“The Fade can teach one much, even about something as mundane as styling one’s hair.” The Fade…how many more proclivities and unexpected skills would he have to attribute to ‘journey’s through the Fade’? Solas freed more of Lavellan’s fine hair from it’s tangles, marveling as it moved like liquid silk through his fingers. She had truly beautiful hair and to keep it long like this…he had to wonder why  _she_ didn’t know how to take care of it. Lavellan leaned back suddenly, resting her head back on his knees in an unexpected movement and fixing him with her bright green gaze.

“Do you shave so that you can look like the statues of the ancient elves?” Solas’ breath caught and his hands stilled for a moment. “Solas?”

“It is merely preference.”  _And a reminder to be humble._  Untangling the last of the knots, he ran his fingers through her hair and gathered it into a few different sections, starting at her brow and working backwards. Before she could press him for more details or take the conversation in an even more stringently inquisitive manner, he chose to fill the silence: “But what of you? Long hair unbound is not ideally suited for the active lifestyle of a Dalish.”

“I can put it into a bun.” She muttered defensively.

“Yes, provided we stop every five minutes to allow you to do so.” He laughed as she reached back to push at his shoulder, making a soft noise of mock offense. Her smile belied her delight, a winsome and genuine curve of her lovely lips.

“You learned this from the Fade-” She ran her fingers over the intricate weaving of the beginning of the braid and he tapped her wrist lightly to shoo her.

“Patience, lethallan.” He chided softly, gathering the hair at her nape to add to the herring bone pattern. “But, to answer your question, yes. The ancient elvhen prided themselves on their hair, intricate styles were popular among both men and women of the time. Many traditions stemmed from such a seemingly innocuous concession to beauty.”

“We have…” Lavellan yawned peacefully, taking a moment to reply as she basked in his touch. To think that moments ago she had nearly been too anxious to sit…Solas felt smug that he had managed to gentle her, to have her practically purring under his careful attentions. “…braiding circles. Or we use to, back in the clan. I’m sure its a far cry from Arlathan nobility but it’s something. It’s more like a…clan relaxation and bonding technique than a tradition but-” The anxiety had crept back into her voice as she tried to relate to him, no doubt expecting him to dismiss her comparison as nonsense. Solas smoothed and straightened a portion of the braid and spoke softly to soothe her:

“Atisha. I understand your intent, lethallan.” She subsided into peaceful silence once more and Solas focused on tucking flyaways into the plait, his mind a hundred thousand years away. Lavellan’s hair would have been the envy of Arlathan nobility: strands of copper and silver and white mixed with the golden, creamy blonde. It was as fickle as she was, fine and unless braided tightly and with discipline would slip free of it’s confines.  _Rebellious. Hellathen, the noble struggle._  Solas smiled as he came to the end of the braid, tying it off with a small strip of leather from the aging binding of one of his books. He paused, fingers lingering over her hair for a moment, reaching up to tuck the strands that were too short to be incorporated into the design behind her ears. Lavellan breathed a soft sigh, her beautiful face free of any emotion but bliss.

“Lethallan?” He forced himself to prompt her to rise, to rid himself of temptation. She raised an eyebrow and opened one eye in a coy, adoring fashion. Solas swallowed and tossed the end of the braid over one of her shoulders in what he hoped was a suitably careless gesture. “There. That should be sufficient to keep it contained. Moreover, it is knot free.”

“I…Oh. Right.” She sat up and ran her fingers over the plaiting, her sheepishness changing to wonder in the space of a moment. “I…ma serannas, Solas.”

“Of course, vhe- _da’len_. I am happy to assist you.” He stood, clasping his hands behind his back and gripping his wrist so hard his fingernails dug crescents in the flesh.  _You fool, distance yourself. You cannot afford distractions._  Lavellan stood for a moment, running her fingers over the braid and smiling at him. There was a pure, simple joy in her expression and she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

“I…do you think maybe you could…teach me to do this?” Her voice had a curious edge, hinting at the unspoken but evident  _‘we should do this again’_. Solas felt a dagger sharp pang of guilt and anxiety and more powerful than both was a desperate, ravenous hunger to say  _yes_.

“I…suppose, if that is your desire.”  _Selfish._ He made himself an empty promise that he’d come up with excuses to avoid such a situation like this again. Empty for he could hardly help himself around Lavellan and she would not be easily dissuaded.

“I’d like that, I think. We’ll talk later?” Lavellan slung her bow and quiver over her shoulders, the gold of her hair reflecting the diffuse candlelight as she straightened. Solas nodded, bowing his head respectfully.

“Dareth shiral.”

“Dareth shiral.” She replied, shutting the door behind her with one last radiant smile.

_And with that, the damage is done._


	2. Flower Crowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second chapter! :D

_“With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?”_   
**— Oscar Wilde**   
  


* * *

 

 

“Are you really the Inquisitor?” A tiny, reedy child’s voice sang out and was answered by Lavellan’s warm laughter and a chorus of nervous giggles from yet more childish throats. Solas paused and took a few stray steps towards where the voices emanated from around the corner, his curiosity getting the better of him. Last he’d seen his vhenan, she had been on her way to seek out Cole and ask him something. Clearly, she’d gotten sidetracked.

“I am, yes. Are you really from Halamshiral?” Ah, that made more sense, then.

“Yes!”

“Well, would you like to know a secret?” Her conspiratorial tone lowered slightly, a chorus of excited childish intakes of breath greeting the suspense before a great reveal.

“Mhmm!”

“So was I for a while.” Solas found himself smiling despite his reservations. He’d rarely heard Lycanae so unguarded as she was in front of these da’len. Nearly no one knew of her relatively brief time spent as a city elf in Orlais after her family was ousted from her birth clan and before she and her brother had sought the succour with Clan Lavellan. 

“I miss it sometimes, though it was different when I was a girl. Did you live along…let me guess…le Chemin D’Arbres?”

After the ball and Celene’s assassination, Gaspard had been installed as the puppet emperor. In a clever feat of machination, Lycanae had placed the true rulership of Orlais in Ambassador Briala’s capable hands. Wise despite a coup that would have made any elf foolishly prideful, Lycanae had anticipated that some subtle violence might befall the elves of Halamshiral and had discreetly volunteered Skyhold as a haven for those who wished it and were able bodied enough to serve in some manner. Many had brought their children with them and now there were at least a score of them racing around together at any given time.

“Yes! My mamae says we’re safer here, though.” Solas sighed and stepped into the garden, determined not to disturb Lavellan and her following of children

“Your Mamae is right. One day, I hope to make Halamshiral your’s again, da’len.” An ambitious and beautiful dream to offer them…at least it was not a promise. Solas knelt beside the beds set aside for the apothecary use, hoping Elan Ve’mal was indeed gone on a rare herb finding expedition and not preparing to ambush him from the shadows. It had happened more than once and arguing over the last feeble shreds of embrium was not a fight he particularly relished having.

If only his vhenan were as talented a gardener as she was a diplomat and huntress…she’d resisted Mother Giselle’s attempts to create a Chantry themed place of rest and relaxation and instead fostered the fertile ground growing a wild but useful collection of herbs. The only flaw in Lavellan’s ‘plan’ was that given free reign, the plants were nearly as unruly as her hair tended to be. It made slipping through the undergrowth to actually take cuttings of the useful herbs a process.  _What has been cannabalising the crystal grace…_

“Here, I’m going to get more flowers! Wait here, hahren!” The rustling of a young figure fighting their way through the weeds made Solas turn. A young elvhen girl bounced into view with three compatriots, dark red hair tumbling around her pointed ears in disorderly curls. She was dressed in typical city elf style, though a crude Inquisition symbol had been stitched into the rough blue green fabric of her dress in copper thread. She stared up at him in embarrassed awe for a moment before darting by him to snatch one of the last remaining blue, trumpet like flowers and dashing away again with thorns and briars tearing at her dress.

“Da’len, wait-!” He stood and ventured after her, branches clinging to his clothes as he extricated himself from the disorderly briar patch in pursuit. The Lady Morrigan turned at the child’s approach, brilliant golden eyes fierce even in the light of day, striking a stark and incongruous figure as she leaned against the gazebo amid a gaggle of children. She registered his presence with the strict attention of a protective parent, deemed him no threat and turned her gaze back to the woman who she’d been speaking to; reaching out to brush her son’s hair back from his face in an absent gesture of self assurance. Kieran, was for once as carefree as any of the other children, welcoming the three elvhen children that had fled from Solas with a delighted laugh. _But then where was Lavellan if._..the woman who had been standing with Morrigan in an elegant dress said something that startled a bark of quick, sweet laughter from the Witch of the Wild’s throat and shifted her stance slightly to glance at the newly arrived children. _..it couldn’t be…_

So used to seeing her in armour or her taupe casual wear and with her hair tucked into a bun, the sight of her in anything else was arresting. His breath caught in his throat and any chastisement he had been about to utter slipped from his mind. Maybe it had just been so many centuries since he saw an elf who had the freedom or reason to dress in finery but then, it was not as though the memories of the glittering palaces and their beautiful elven occupants had faded. Maybe it was just that in a heart stoppingly pure moment in the afternoon sunlight, Lavellan looked like one of them. Like she had stepped through the ages and the distant and bittersweet fabric of time immemorial to be present in this moment. The powerful pulse of recognition and the memories it stirred stopped him in his tracks.

Lavellan swooped down on the little girl who’d stolen the last viable sprig of crystal grace, lifting the tiny form with ease and spinning her around, skirts flaring and their laughter echoing around the garden. Dressed in shades of green and gold and cream, she was a vision of loveliness.  And her hair…the gaggle of children surrounding her had outdone themselves.

It was an old tradition amongst the elves that brides wear flowers in their hair. He’d seen it transcend the test of time, surviving in some form amongst the city elves at least. The Dalish, who had little time for ceremonies outside of religious observance and Arlathvhen’s, did not generally practice such a frivolous art. Lavellan was a vision: Crystal grace threaded through the long braid down her back, white tea roses arranged delicately in the braids at her crown, small yellow flowers and a twining, leafy vine tucked and curled in amongst the arrangement and framing her pointed ears. As she held the girl on her hip, the da’len leaned forward and started threading the stolen crystal grace through the coils of gold at her nape, dew touched petals glistening in the afternoon sunlight. Solas covered his mouth to hide the foolish, happy grin that was starting at the corners of his lips.

* * *

Lycanae laughed and set down the giggling elven girl, feeling the sun warm her arms and the back of her neck. The dress was something Josie had insisted on, saying that there would soon be more balls and soirees for the Inquisition to attend and that the communal burning of the red pantsuits(She’d rarely seen Dorian so happy to be rid of an outfit…Solas’, on the other hand, had to be wrested from him by an overexcited Sera.) in addition to the release of several new plays in Val Royeaux (entitled things like ‘What Not to Wear to a Ball’ which depicted quite clearly the very same outfit they’d all worn being burned in effigy), had prompted a drastic change in wardrobe.

_“I have heard, and correct me if I am wrong, Lady Lavellan-that ball gowns are not common amongst the Dalish. Perhaps just…wear this around and get used to it?”_

As soon as Lycanae had set eyes on the dress it had been very clear that it was not some mere practice gown. It had been tailored for her, the fabric and weave and pattern surely extortionate. Gold taffeta and emerald green silk, artfully detailed with just hints and nods to elven fashion. The cream stitching and panels in the subdued skirt matched her skin, complementing each other in a design that while grand, would not draw so much attention as to make her self conscious. The skirt itself could be swept back into a more practical train, gold and green breeches sheathing her slim legs, calfskin boots fine enough to be dressy yet sturdy enough for some light archery maneuvers and sneaking came up to her knees. She’d had a suspicion where it came from and sought out Morrigan, inadvertently acquiring a tiny following of children who’d heard fanciful tales of the Dalish Inquisitor.

That she was Dalish had wowed them anyway, that she apparently strode about a castle of her own in finery yet with a bow and quiver slung over her shoulders was something out of a fairy tale. Frankly, having children idolize her was more flattering and rewarding than all the compliments all the nobility could offer her and she cherished their regard. She answered all their questions as she walked, let one of the youngest take her hand in there’s and walk with her to the garden. The moments of banality were so strange and yet so welcome. It made her feel a part of something again, like a person, to walk with da’len hand in hand and be asked innocent questions and be able to give truthful, innocent answers in return. She was so at ease among them it was probably why she’d acquiesed when a few of the young girls had requested to play with her hair, passing her bow to a few of the young boys to allow them to marvel over it but keeping the arrows for herself.

Thus she’d wiled away the lazy afternoon, thanking Morrigan for the tailor she had suggested. The former Empress’ arcane advisor had hid her surprise at being discovered well and with a graceful smile. _You needed something that suited you, Inquisitor…as did I when I first arrived at court. It was a small thing…I would caution you not to tell Leliana but I am certain she already knows. Most unfortunate._  Lycanae found herself becoming fonder and fonder of the woman the longer they talked. Morrigan spoke of the Hero of Ferelden, cited their friendship and claimed that she had Mahariel to thank for the birth of her son. The fondness in Morrigan’s eyes when they turned on Kieran was as clear as it was heartwarming to see. It was simple, pleasant, safe as few things had been since she’d woken up in Haven. She was so relaxed she didn’t realise anything was amiss at all, even when Morrigan shifted to a less relaxed stance and glanced over her shoulder.

Turning, Lycanae saw Solas standing across the garden. Not far…certainly no more than a hundred yards, watching her with one hand covering his mouth. His brows were knit together and his stance was rigid and she felt a sliver of anxiety strike at her. Here she was, basking in the sunlight and having let her guard down enough that she was making aimless small talk with Morrigan. She had reports to file, an assault to plan. Important Inquisitorial duties and Creator’s she was wearing a dress with flowers in her hair and looking the picture of foolishness, no doubt. 

She felt more than saw Morrigan’s eyes on her as she swept through the pack of suddenly attentive children, approaching Solas briskly. As she did she reached up to start plucking the blossoms free, belatedly realising what an abundance of potion and tonic ingredients the da’len had been decorating her with with dismay. _I’ll fix it. It was just an act. I’m the people’s Inquisitor after all I was just playing the part I…the flowers are tangled, aren’t they? Fenhedis_ -She was so focused on singlemindedly ridding herself of her floral decorations that it took her a moment to realise Solas was smiling.

Smiling? She didn’t know what to do with smiling…was it approval? Mockery? Was there something on the dress that made him smile? Oh Mythal had Morrigan’s tailor butchered some elven dress code and she looked all the more ridiculous for it? This was just-

“Don’t you like the flowers, hahren?” She froze with one hand still at her nape, casting a guilty glance at one of the young elven girls who’d slaved over the arrangement.

“I…of course I do, da’len I just-” Solas gently gripped her wrist, drawing her had down from where it hovered in preparation to dismantle the artful arrangement and she trailed off. Stormy grey blue eyes warmed with fondness for her, his lips quirking into a softer smile as he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers and she let out a huff of nervous breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding.

“You look lovely, ma vhenan’ara.” His voice took her breath away and his gaze stole coherent thought from her mind. She was so used to presenting a self assured veneer of confidence and fearlessness in front of everyone but with Solas it just…she truly felt it. Sometimes foolish, sometimes flawed but somehow his approval sent her heart to soaring.  _Oh, Ghilan’nain’s grace I am a fool…_ Solas tilted his head slightly, still smiling as he plucked a few blooms of Crystal Grace from her hair. “However, as aesthetically pleasing as these are, I do need them as ingredients.And perhaps, vhenan, you can take some time from your adoring populace to take a walk with me? I would not like to be here when Elan discovers that her plants have been tampered with.” Lavellan smiled as she intertwined their fingers.

“Ma nuvenin, Solas.”


End file.
